After a week or two, I noticed that Tasia frequently stood at the front gate looking longingly at the people and animals passing by outside — goats, cows and chickens roamed freely on the road. While the yard was quite large and Tasia had plenty of company, he rarely went off the grounds. I began taking him for daily walks, using my belt for his leash. I enjoyed the exercise and the diversion from work, and I loved introducing Tasia to the neighborhood children. Our daily routine helped me feel comfortable in my new surroundings and introduced me to our neighbors, who were not accustomed to seeing a large dog being walked on a leash. More importantly, it felt like home for me — the same routine I had with my own dog. It made me feel closer to Helen to walk Tasia each day.
It is not the norm in this area of the world for a dog to be walked on a leash. Dogs remain inside gated compounds to guard the property. There were surprisingly few stray dogs roaming the neighborhood streets. By and large, the local people were frightened of dogs, and crossed to the other side of the street when we walked by. Sometimes I heard the muttered word simba (“lion” in Swahili), and it’s true that Tasia was almost as large as a lion, and was similarly colored.
Eventually, the children became used to seeing the two of us every afternoon and would wave gleefully as we walked by. Some would even run toward us, always stopping a good distance away, afraid of getting too close to the dog. Tasia proved to be a great canine ambassador. He sat readily on command, and I taught the children how to allow the dog to smell them, to approach gently, and to feel his soft and velvety fur. Tasia was always calm and charming, and the children became brave and confident as they gradually developed the nerve to touch him.
Our relationship grew, and soon, Tasia began to expect his daily or twice-daily walks — in the early morning before work and in the evening when I returned home. On days when I was running late, I would feel guilty when those soulful eyes looked at me with longing as I walked out of the gate without him. On Sundays, when the office was empty, I took Tasia with me. He would greet the watchmen, explore the yard and the nooks and crannies of the office, then lay on the cool cement floor as I emailed home. My teammates began teasing me that I was spoiling Tasia and would have to take him back to the U.S. with me when I returned. I must admit it was tempting; Tasia was truly a regal dog and I knew I would miss him greatly. I believed he would also miss me, since no one else provided him with daily walks.
I began scheming about how to get him home, but in my heart, knew that the plane ride was just not something to which I could subject him. Each leg of the journey would require a minimum of 10 to 12 hours in a crate. I have seen dogs that have made this journey — the large ones limp for days, and all look sorely stressed. Tasia belonged to Africa.
My work was challenging, both from a cultural perspective and an emotional one — after all, it was an HIV/AIDS project in an area of limited resources, where sad things happened on a daily basis. But on particularly difficult days, when it all seemed too much to bear, there was Tasia waiting at the gate, with his soft touch, his gentle nuzzle and his constancy in just being there. We would sit on the veranda, me sipping a beer while he rested his head on my knee. I cannot begin to describe how this helped lessen my burden and give me the strength and encouragement I needed to continue. While it helped to destress with my teammates, nothing filled my emotional needs like the quiet, loving acceptance of that dog.
The day I left to begin my journey home, I walked Tasia very early in the morning, wanting to spend as much time as possible with him. I explained that I would be leaving, and that he would always be in my heart. I thanked him for his love and attention, and his friendship. He then did something he had never done before: he gently licked me on the cheek. He understood; he had been through this before.